


Beautiful Monster (working title)

by Eternal_Johnlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Asexual Sherlock Holmes, Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, Fluff and Angst, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Johnlock freeform, M/M, Making Love, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Possible NonCon, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sort of case fic, Stalker Jim Moriarty, Vampires, feeding replaces sex, john does not handle the truth very well, john knows he loves sherlock he just isn't ready to admit it to himself, mary is dead but season four only sort of happened, moriarty is a shit even when he's dead, rosie exists but eurus doesn't, sherlock explains how he survived the fall, sherlock holmes is a vampire, sherlock is inexperienced, vampires aren't really dead but they had to die to transition, vampires with a pulse, you don't have to have sex to make love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-07 06:02:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16402667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eternal_Johnlock/pseuds/Eternal_Johnlock
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is young compared to most vampires in London, only ten years old. Well, ten years undead. He has done an admirable job hiding his little secret from his best friend, but it has come at a cost. Keeping John away from the truth means keeping him at arms length, never letting him see the cracks in the facade.Sherlock knows he can't have what he wants most, he can't be with John Watson-- not in this lifetime.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi readers.  
> Honestly I've been having the hardest time writing lately and at the time of posting this i still haven't made any progress on the final chapter of my previous fic. Vampires are a favorite subject of mine and I have always loved Vampire Sherlock, so get ready for angst.
> 
> I hope you enjoy my little romp in vampire land. I'm not sure how often i'll be updating this as my life has been super busy with work and home stuff. Also i'm getting braces tomorrow and i expect that i'll be in too much paint want to write.
> 
>  
> 
> So in this first chapter John realizes that he may be moving on from Mary's death.

There were signs, John can see that now. Little things here and there, almost as if Sherlock had been subtly trying to let him know.

But how could John have known?

What rational person would have— could have— drawn this conclusion.

When you have illuminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

So this is your truth, Sherlock.

Warm blood trickles down his arm from where his hand is pressed against the tear along the side of his neck. The room begins to spin around him but he cannot take his eyes from the form before him.

The figure is tall and thin with a mess of dark hair. It looks like his Sherlock, but it can’t be. A hideous growl scratches out of this Sherlock's throat, coarse and beastly. His eyes flash dangerously, blood dripping from his lips.

 

…

 

John heaves a sigh as the door clicks shut behind him. Leaning his head back he drops his bag and allows his eyes to slip closed for just a moment.

What had he been thinking? It was so stupid, just the briefest lapse in judgment, a mistake.

Of course it had been a mistake. If not, he wouldn’t feel this twisting in his gut. He bites down hard on his lip.

“John, is that you?” Mrs. Hudson calls from behind her door, he can hear her clattering about in the kitchen.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he replies, “I’ll be right in.”

“Oh, no rush, dearie.”

There is an obvious smile in her voice as she coos something unintelligible and is answered by a squealing laugh from Rosie. John's heart lightens just a little.

He takes the steps two at a time. _Please be out, please be out. I really don’t want to deal with_ —

As John steps onto the landing he is greeted by the sight of Sherlock standing in front of the couch contemplating the wall which is covered in all manner of photos and photo copies, arranged so haphazardly that John hasn’t been able to make out whatever system Sherlock has apparently employed.

The clutter covering the wallpaper seems to have spread in the time since John left for work.

He says nothing and slips into the flat through the kitchen door hoping his flatmate is too absorbed by his thoughts to notice him.

No such luck.

“John,” Sherlock rasps as if his voice hasn’t been used in hours.

“Hey, Sherlock.”

As if summoned by his name Sherlock drifts through the kitchen door on silent feet. It’s a bit freaky the way he does that.

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to say something but stops, eyes narrowing as they focus on John. Of course he noticed, he’s Sherlock, he notices everything.

_Here we go_.

“So,” he drawls, “the surgery has hired a new nurse.”

John fights the urge to say something he’ll regret.

“Look, can we not do this tonight, mate?” he almost begs.

Sherlock's expression remains completely blank. He’s good at hiding how much he enjoys this.

“Do what?”

John pinches the bridge of his nose and drops his bag with a thump.

“Ok fine, what was it?” he asks, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Sorry?” Sherlock's head tilts slightly.

“What gave it away? Did I forget to smooth down my hair, is there a lipstick stain on my collar, what was it?”

Sherlock's eyes glint, “I can smell her on you.”

Something in Sherlock's voice, a hard edge to his words, makes John stand up a little straighter. Sherlock's pale eyes drift once up and down John's body before locking on his face, which John is sure must be bright red.

“I really don’t want to do this with you right now,” he says slowly, making sure his friend hears every syllable.

Sherlock gives a little shrug.

“Very well. It’s nice to you’re _moving on_.”

“Sod off,” John spits, turning on his heel and practically marching back down the stairs.

He hates when Sherlock gets like this, acidic and underhanded with his deductions.

John waits less than a second after knocking to let himself into Mrs. Hudson’s flat. The sound of running water and the sweet smell of baking greet him as he crosses the threshold.

“We’re in here,” Mrs. Hudson calls from the kitchen.

Rosie is perched on Mrs. Hudson’s hip, begrudgingly allowing her to clean her little hand with a wet flannel.

“Daddy!” she cries when she catches sight of John and demands to be put down. John's face breaks into a huge grin as she races to him and kneels down, opening his arms to her. He scoops the little girl up into his arms and kisses her hair.

“Hello, darling, did you miss me?”

She nods her head furiously, gold ringlets bouncing adorably.

“We’ve made a cake,” Mrs. Hudson says and John looks up at the work top to see it covered in flour and a crushed egg.

“And how much of the cake actually made it into the tin?”

He tries to laugh with her but can’t seem to manage it. She can tell somethings amiss. Of course she can, she’s Mrs. Hudson, she can always tell.

“Rosie, love, why don’t you go and play in the sitting room for a bit? I’ll come and get you when the cake is ready.”

Rosie acquiesces and John places her on her feet, he feels his shoulders sag a little as soon as she’s out of ear shot.

Mrs. Hudson guides him to the table, ignoring his token protests, and fills the kettle to boil.

She sits opposite him and folds her hands.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

Straight to the point, then.

Jon shifted uncomfortably, he had never spoken with his landlady about this sort of thing before.

He clears his throat and sucks in a breath.

“A few weeks ago my clinic hired a new nurse, Liz. She’s nice, perfectly charming at her interview, and we’ve been talking for a while.”

Talking was perhaps not the most accurate way of phrasing it, it was more like flirting outrageously and unapologetically at every given opportunity.

“I haven’t had so much fun spending time with anyone in a long time.”

“And you have a little crush, do you?” Mrs. Hudson asks as she gets up to pour their tea.

John pauses before answering. Grown men don’t have crushes.

“No, I don’t think so. She’s attractive, sure, and absolutely hilarious, but I don’t feel that way about her.”

“Well then, what’s the problem? Two grown people can simply enjoy _talking_ with each other without expecting more.”

John huffs a laugh.

“Yeah, I was content with just talking but she came into my office as I was getting ready to leave tonight and…” he clears his throat and crosses his arms.

“Go on, love,” she coaxes, “I had my share of experiences before a was married, I won’t faint, I promise.”

This draws a smile out of John and he reclines his head back against the wall.

“She kissed me. She said she liked me and then she kissed me. She even asked first, and I said yes. And then she kissed me,” he lifted his hands and let them drop into his lap as if to say ‘I have no fucking clue what to do about this’.

Mrs. Hudson remained silent.

“It’s the first time I’ve kissed anyone since Mary died.”

She makes a knowing sound and sips her tea.

“I just feel… I don’t know. Weird, I guess. Like I shouldn’t have done it.”

“Mary’s been gone for over a year, John.”

“I know but…” he shuts his eyes tight. “A few months ago I wouldn’t have even thought of saying yes to Liz, now I’m snogging my coworker in my office after hours.”

“It seems you may be moving on and you didn’t even realize,” she says with a smile, “it’s a good thing.”

“It doesn’t feel like a good thing.”

The oven beeps and Mrs. H rises to kiss him on the forehead before retrieving the cake tins.

“Be patient with yourself. You have been through quite a lot.”

_And I replay every moment of it at night when I close my eyes_.

 

Everything becomes very still after John puts Rosie to bed. The volume on the TV is lowered and John is careful to avoid banging into anything as he moves around the flat. Even Sherlock who usually can’t be bothered to respect other people’s rest seems to slow down and make an effort to be quieter.

John pulls Styrofoam containers from the delivery box and peeks inside to inspect the contents before placing them on their respective sides of the table.

He steps to the sink to retrieve utensils, no one had bothered to do the dishes apparently. When he turns back he jumps, Sherlock is already seated, tearing his naan into strips and stuffing it into his mouth.

“Easy, the foods not going anywhere,” John say and hands Sherlock a fork before he can start shoveling butter chicken into his mouth with his fingers.

As John prepares to tuck in he glances up at Sherlock's face. There are dark shadows under his eyes and his skin seems to have taken on a sickly parlor in the last few days. He wishes the idiot would sleep more.

He was concerned when he first observed this back when they’d first met. But John has since accepted that Sherlock's lack of desire to take proper care of himself will inevitably result in bouts of poor health. No that Sherlock would has even once admitted to being ill.

Well, at least he was eating tonight. It didn’t happen often, but when the detective’s appetite did kick he became absolutely ravenous. Sherlock was half way through his meal before John had made a dent in his own.

“So where are you with the case?”

“No closer to finding the murderer than I was this morning.”

Whatever bitterness Sherlock had been feeling when John came home seemed to have dissipated, or he may have been too distracted by his food to care about anything else.

“You said Scotland Yard wants this one resolved quickly?”

“They’re the police, they want every case closed as quickly as possible. Though, I suppose I can see the reason for their urgency this time.”

“Real vicious one this time, yeah? Victims with their throats slashed.”

“Not slashed, John, torn down to the bone.”

John suppressed a shiver.

“And you’re sure you don’t need my help on this?”

When Greg had called Sherlock for help, neither of them had thought to let John know. Sherlock had claimed it was because this would be an easy one and that he only agreed to help because he had nothing else on. That didn’t mean it didn’t sting to be forgotten like that.

“No, your assistance isn’t necessary. Someone this sloppy has to slip up sooner or later. Besides, you do need to actually turn up to your real job every so often.”

They shared a light laugh and lapse into silence.

Even after so long, Sherlock remains such a mystery to John. One moment he’s snappish and maybe even a little aggressive, and the next they could sit companionably together over dinner, with John's daughter sleeping upstairs.

Sherlock was undeniably odd. Rarely sleeping, hardly eating, often moody, and utterly lacking in a self-preservation instinct. But watching Sherlock across the table, those old habits are not what put John on edge, not what occasionally made his heart skip. Yes, he could admit Sherlock was beautiful, in his strange, ethereal way. But there was something almost otherworldly about his flatmate, something John could never articulate. There were times he didn’t even seem human.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock goes in search of a meal and gets a call from Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been going over my outline, what little i have, and i have a much better idea what I'm doing with this story now. i'm looking forward to writing the rest.

It’s getting late, nearing one in the morning. Sherlock huffs an annoyed little sigh and places his mug down, John gives him a quizzical look from the other side of the table.

They hadn’t bothered clearing up after dinner and had dropped easily into conversation which had lasted nearly four hours, even the ritual of making tea hadn’t interrupted them. 

It’s been some time since they last talked like this, just the two of them alone, sheltered in the privacy of their home where they could be honest with each other.

Or at least as honest as its possible to be when two people have locked themselves away behind layers and layers of defenses in order to keep out the hurts of the world.

“You ought to go to bed,” Sherlock says, running the pad of his finger lazily around the cool rim of his mug. “You have an early shift tomorrow.”

“You know my work schedule?” John asks, eyes softening.

Sherlock’s heart kicks.

“Of course, Mrs. Hudson and I look after Rosie most days,” he says quickly.

“Oh right,” John says, shifting a little in his chair and clearing his throat, “of course.”

They stand as if in sync and Sherlock offers his hand to take John's mug for washing. John thanks him with a sheepish smile and Sherlock is grateful his skin rarely colors anymore.

John makes for the kitchen door to head up stairs but stops at the threshold.

“Sherlock,” he says, voice hushed, “I enjoyed this,” he gestures at the table. “It was nice just to talk to you again.”

Neither of them seem to know what to say next, and Sherlock loses himself for a moment staring into John's deep blue eyes.

“Good night, John.”

“Good night, Sherlock.”

Something cold settles in the air of the living room as John leaves, as if he has taken the last of the day’s warmth with him up to his and Rosie’s bedroom.

Without the distraction of conversation, the pain in his gums flares up and demands to be heard. Sherlock rubs at his cheek and flexes his jaw, lips curling back over his teeth. The throbbing pull at the back of his tongue and burning dryness in his throat has been steadily worsening for nearly a week now. He hasn’t let it get this far in a while, not since Rosie was born— he couldn’t risk it. It was not unusual for a case to take priority over sustenance, but this had gone on long enough.

He waits quietly in his chair for an hour or so to ensure John is asleep before putting on his coat and shoes and padding quietly down into the foyer.

There is a mirror on the wall beside the coat pegs and Sherlock catches a glimpse of his reflection as he makes for the door. He looks almost wild. Hair in disarray from running his fingers through it in his impatience to leave, eyes dull with dark shadows blooming beneath, skin gone sickly pale, nearly translucent.

He looks like a specter, a mere imprint of the man that had once been the great Sherlock Holmes. And god, didn’t it feel that way some days.

The late October air is bitingly cold and Sherlock forgoes a cab, no sense wasting such a nice night. He watches the stars as he walks, mesmerized by the way they twinkle and glimmer against the velvet sky. There was a time, no so very long ago, when he would have dismissed such trivialities as the loveliness of stars— but that was before John Watson.

John Watson made the world beautiful. He made Sherlock's world beautiful.

Now Sherlock often finds himself sitting in the rocking chair by the upstairs window with Rosie curled in his arms, telling her all about the stars as she falls asleep. His encyclopedic rambling which most find irritating, a lullaby to the little girl.

There is a pang in his chest because he knows it cannot always be this way. Very soon Rosie will need her own room, and she and John will have to leave Baker Street again; leave Sherlock again. And after that Sherlock knows it can only be another few years at best before he will need to disappear from the Watson’s lives altogether.

Only a few more years before it becomes very obvious that Sherlock's hair has not gone grey the way John's has, or that his face is almost unchanged from the day they met. Only a few more years before he will have to break John's heart again, or sooner if he should ever discover the truth.

Sherlock swallows hard and when he does he catches a scent and realizes he has arrived within feet of his destination. Across the street a man stands reclined against the grey brick wall of an alley. Sherlock's throat tightens and his lips pull back, tongue flicking over the point of his teeth. His breath scratches out in a low growl. He groans involuntarily as another cramp grips his insides— he needs to feed.

What he will not admit he really wants to do is stride across the street and grab hold of then man leaned against the wall. To force his head back and sink his teeth into his throat. Feel the last few feeble pulses of his carotid as it leaks hot blood down their fronts, warming them against the cold night air.

The man looks over then and gives Sherlock a wave, and Sherlock crosses the empty street.

“Hey there,” the man says with a friendly smile, “you looking for a fix?”

Sherlock sneers and the man, late thirties, blond, average build, former smoker, with a chestnut Labrador mix, seems to take this as a yes.

“Come on inside, then. We’ll get you stocked up.”

The stranger leads Sherlock through a heavy metal door marked Pearson Slaughterhouse.

The door leads to a small lobby divided by a service desk. The recessed florescent lights flicker off bright yellow walls and burn his eyes, illuminating a man in a tattered work shirt behind the desk, feet kicked up on the counter. He shoots out of his chair upon seeing Sherlock.

“Mr. Holmes,” he beams, “always good to see you.”

“Good evening, Amir.” He can hear the unsteadiness in his voice.

One look at him and Amir is already retreating to a door behind the counter and hurriedly jamming a key into the lock.

“You should not have waited so long,” he chastises.

“I know, my most recent case has been keeping my busy and I lost track of time. What do you have in?”

Amir steps into the office and there is the sucking sound of a refrigerator door being pulled open and warm air spills into the room. Through the window into the office Sherlock can see Amir scratch his thick beard and make a face.

“It’s the end of the month and I’ve already sold most of my stock to others in the area. If you’d come sooner…” he shrugs his shoulders in a teasing sort of way, “I might have had your favorite in.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Well, what _do_ you have?”

Amir considers the fridge’s contents.

“I have a pint of pig collected this morning. But that won’t be nearly enough.”

“It’ll do for now, just call me when you have more product. I can’t keep much in my flat, what I do have on hand is conspicuous enough as it is.”

“Very well,” Amir says as though he is unconvinced it is a good idea to let Sherlock leave with less than will satisfy him. But something is better than nothing.

Amir places the deli cup on the counter and Sherlock's mouth fills with saliva and the sharp tang of his venom. He fishes a note out of his wallet with slightly shaking fingers.

“Did you bring a thermos? I could heat this for you.”

“No,” Sherlock croaks. His throat has constricted unbearably, trying to swallow blood he hasn’t even tasted yet.

Amir lays a strip of tape over the lid of the cup and places it carefully in a plastic bag. He opens his mouth to offer a good night, but Sherlock has already swept out the door.

Back in the alley, the man who had lead him into the office is gone and Sherlock is grateful for the privacy. He retreats deeper into the alley, concealing himself in the darkest shadows before sliding down the wall and pulling the deli cup from the bag.

It may be animal, and it may not be fresh, but the scent sends a delicious shiver down Sherlock's spine as he peels away the lid. He lifts the cup to his mouth and lets the blood slips between his lips.

Relief washes through him as blood coats his tongue. The thrill is muted compared to that of a fresh kill, but still there is a tingling in his extremities that makes him sigh deep and long.

         By the time he’s drained half of the cup a fog has settled in his brain making the world go a bit fuzzy all round him. Dimly he hears the familiar chiming of his phone and it takes him a moment to realize he is hearing the sound because his phone is ringing and he should probably answer it.

“ _Mph_ ,” he mumbles.

“Sherlock, it’s Greg Lestrade. Sorry to wake you.”

“What is it?” his voice is thick and raspy.

“We’ve got another one. A woman with her throat ripped out, will you come?”

 

In hindsight it was not a very good idea to have agreed to come to the crime scene. When he steps out of the cab the haze of feeding still hasn’t lifted and he nearly trips on the curb. This was why he tries to avoid eating on cases, he would be like this for at least another hour.

“Sherlock,” Greg calls to him as he jogs over.

“What do you have?”

Greg leads him under the police tape and into a block of flats that has clearly been vacant for some time. He explains that the body was found by a homeless man looking for a place to sleep. The building has been empty of tenants for nearly two years, it sustained serious damage after a pipe burst and has changed hands several times since then. The new owners have been getting it ready for renters for the past few weeks.

“Owner of the shop across the street phoned it in when the homeless guy stumbled through his door shouting about a dead body,” Greg continued as they ascended the stairwell, the door to which is propped open and officers and forensics workers stream in and out.

As they reach the second floor the scent of fresh blood reaches Sherlock and a low growl rumbles in his chest.

“You good?” Lestrade asks, placing a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock quickly shrugs him off but then gives him an apologetic look when he remembers people generally find that rude.

“I’m fine,” he whispers harshly, “it’s just…”

“The blood,” Lestrade finishes.

“How long has she been dead?”

“A few hours at most.”

“Can’t be, the scent of blood is too fresh. She’s been dead less than two hours.”

When they step through the landing door into the second story corridor they are greeted by a scowling Sally Donovan and Lestrade moves to walk beside her as she leads the way onto the scene.

“Our guys are doing just fine, we don’t need _him_ ,” she directs this comment at Lestrade but she clearly intended for Sherlock to hear. He rolls his eyes.

“Our guys are not doing fine, we’re on victim number five and we’ve got nothing.”

“Well he hasn’t made any progress either. If he had, we would have caught whoever it is by now.” Sally is brought up short when she realizes that what she said could almost be considered a compliment.

Sherlock brushes past them into the flat cordoned off with yellow tape. He and Sally share a petty glare as he passes and Sherlock spares a thought for the days when he would have jumped for joy at the mere mention of a serial killer.

The body lies sprawled on the bare concrete floor, vacant eyes staring unseeing at the patchy ceiling.

“Clear out,” Greg instructs those still at work in the room, “give us a minute.”

Shuffling of feet on plastic sheeting as three officers and a forensic tech vacate the flat’s living room. Sherlock's eyes run up and down the woman’s body, it takes longer than usual for his brain to start cataloging.

“No ID, no purse, no phone,” Greg says, “what do you got?”

“Early thirties, unmarried, no children. Her hair is professionally colored and her nails are kept neat but not manicured. So she’s employed somewhere professional but where she does a lot of work with her hands, didn’t see a point in spending the extra money. She didn’t make much, or if she did she didn’t spend it on her clothes. Business casual, not cheap but not in season, some of her pieces are high end— off season retailer— others are high street.”

He could get more if his brain wasn’t so damn foggy.

“She’s of average build but not particularly toned or muscular, so she probably didn’t regularly go to a gym, busy schedule. Callus on her left middle finger suggests she’s left handed. There’s a surgical scar on the inside of her right wrist that looks to be about a year old, check with hospitals to see if anyone remembers her. Surgery like that would require physical therapy. She has a cat and—”

Sherlock's voice catches when he stops to really examine the woman’s throat. Gouged so deep her spine is visible, and she lay in a dark lake of her own blood. Sherlock was not easily unnerved, but the victims on this case had been subjected to a kind of violence the average person simply wasn’t capable of. Something animalistic; bloodlust.

“Multiple sets of foot prints in the blood.”

“Just like the last one.”

“It’s a pack, it must be. Five kills in a month, they must have several mouths to feed.”

“A pack?”

“Five or six individuals at least, some of their scents I recognize, others I don’t. We typically need to feed twice a month, so by the time they’ve fed the last in the group, they have to start over again. But there are other ways of obtaining blood.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Funny.”

Greg shuffles a bit and clears his throat.

“Are you, uh, going to do that thing you do sometimes.”

“Perhaps you could try being a bit more specific.”

“That thing where you touch people and you see things.”

Sherlock made an impressed little noise, he had never expressly told Lestrade about that particular skill. He really should give the DI more credit.

“Even though the body is fresh, it’s nearly impossible to get a reading on a corpse. I’ve gotten nothing from the last four.”

“But they were older. Hours had gone by before we found them.”

“Very well.”

Sherlock takes a breath and crouches low over the body. Carefully he removes his glove and brushes her hair aside, placing his hand over the woman’s forehead.

Its faint but a shock of intense, keening fear races up Sherlock's arm and spears through his mind. He jerks his hand back.

“What?”

“They do this for the fun of it,” he bites out. “This woman doesn’t have any personal belongings with her because she was abducted and brought here. Check the lost and found at tube stations, you may find her things. She may have been headed home when she was taken. It rained earlier tonight but her shoes are relatively clean, so she probably didn’t walk her under her own steam, check traffic cameras and CCTV, maybe something will turn up.”

The smell of blood was beginning to make him dizzy. He hadn’t finished the pint of pig’s blood and he’d left the rest in the alley. It wouldn’t do to turn up to a murder scene carrying a takeout container of blood. He is still so thirsty.

When he was done here he would stop in and get proper takeaway somewhere, real food would help with the cravings. He swayed slightly as he stood.

“Whoa, mate, you alright?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, shaking his head to clear it, “I am perfectly fine.”

“Get home, get some rest. I’ll phone later if we find anything. Are you going to bring John up to speed on things now or what?”

“Absolutely not.”

“You know he’s going to find out sooner or later.”

Sherlock's stomach twists.

“I will not involve John in any case concerning vampires, ever. He doesn’t need to know.”

“He’s your best friend, you’re Rosie’s godfather, he has to know eventually. How will you explain it when he’s gone all wrinkly and you’ve barely aged a day?”

Sherlock does not respond, just turns on his heel and marches out of the flat. He needed to get home anyway, it was his turn to watch Rosie in the morning when John left for work, and it would help if he could get a bit of sleep before then.

He didn’t want to think about the day he would inevitably have to say goodbye to John Watson. He imagined the pain of that separation might kill him. But of course, that was no longer possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you enjoyed :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a think about his relationship with Sherlock and encounters Mrs. Hudson's bizarre cat on the steps of 221.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello,
> 
> This past month has been ridiculous. I've had weird hours at work and i've been so tired from work and holiday prep, not to mention doctors appointments and other annoying life maintenance, that this chapter is a bit later than expected.
> 
> I would like this fic to be about 6-7 chapters, hopefully, so we're nearly half way there!
> 
> I'm happy you guys seem to be as interested in this story as i am. Thanks for your support.

There is a knock on the office door.

“Come in,” John calls, clicking his pen shut and pushing back from the file in front of him.

Liz steps into the room, a genuine but unsure smile on her face.

“Hey,” she says, not meeting his eyes.

John feels something distinctly uncomfortable lodge in his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs back.

Liz scuffs the linoleum with the toe of her trainer.

“So I was wondering,” she begins, color rising in her cheeks, “if  you like to grab a coffee some time?”

And there it was.

John takes a deep breath and leans back in his swivel chair.

“I’m sorry, Liz,” he scratches the back of his neck, “I’m, erm… I’m just not looking for anything right now.”

She nods her head and looks down at her feet.

“I understand,” she says, clearly forcing a smile, “I suppose there’s a certain someone in your life who keeps you rather busy at the moment, anyway.”

A smile spreads across his face.

“Yeah,” he says, “he’s quite a handful.”

Liz’s head tilts in what looks like confusion.

“Sorry, I thought you had a daughter.”

It takes John a moment to realize what she’s talking about.

“Oh!” he tries to laugh it off, “yes, Rosie, my daughter. Don’t know why I said ‘he’.”

_Liar._

He fights the urge to slap his forehead.

“Well,” Liz give him a little smile and backs out of the office, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Or, whenever…”

It isn’t until half an hour later when he is on the train home that he begins to realize what an enormous jerk he’s been. It was unkind of him to have allowed Liz to think he was interested at all when he really wasn’t. Not in her, at least.

Once, what felt like a life time ago, John had felt no shame in hiding in a string of dead end relationships. He had happily ignored that fact and plowed on dating mindlessly; insisting to himself that he wanted it to work out. He wanted something normal. A pretty girl, a pretty house, maybe a couple of kids. That was what he was supposed to want.

Then he’d met Sherlock and suddenly the pretty girl and the pretty house no longer appealed the way they once had. He had quickly realized that normal could never satisfy him, could never complete him the way his life with Sherlock did.

They had lived together less than a month before John became aware of just how far outside his version of normal his feelings for Sherlock were.

It wasn’t that Sherlock is a man, no there had been men in John's romantic life before— secretly. It was that John was falling in love with him, and falling in love was not something John Three Continents Watson did often or easily.

But Sherlock had made it clear early on that relationships, and sex, were not something he did. He was married to his work, and John could live with that. he would ignore it and persist in finding the right woman, settle down, and keep on solving cases with his best friend. It would all be fine.

Then Sherlock had fallen, and John spent two years choked by all the things he had been too afraid to say and he had sworn to himself that if he was ever given another chance, he would tell Sherlock the truth.

But of course he hadn’t.

When the love of his life had miraculously come back to him, John had not come clean. And that was still a mystery to him. He couldn’t bring himself to regret his silence the way he had before the fall because he couldn’t imagine life without his beautiful daughter. But even still. Mary has been gone for over a year and John can feel the pain of that loss easing more and more every day. He knows what he wants, but he knows he cannot have it.

He can’t be with Sherlock because Sherlock doesn’t love him.

No, that wasn’t true. Sherlock does love John, maybe more than he has ever loved anyone, and John knows this. But he is not in love with him. It’s really quite simple.

It isn’t Sherlock's fault that he didn’t fall in love with John. Some people just aren’t wired that way. Or, it could just be that John isn’t Sherlock's type— he could easily believe that. But that doesn’t make it any less devastating for John to lie in bed at night trying desperately to ignore the fantasies of his best friend that swirl through his mind, knowing that to go down stairs and crawl into bed with him would be completely unacceptable.

And John knows life cannot continue as it has been for much longer. Rosie is growing so fast and soon there won’t be enough room in the upstairs bedroom for the both of them. He will have to leave Baker Street again, leave his home again.

Even after all these years there was something about Sherlock that John could never quite grasp. He had seen a side of the man he was certain no one else knew. John had been as close to Sherlock as it was possible for a man to be with someone he could only call a friend, and yet he still felt as though he was being held at arms-length.

No matter how hard he tried, Sherlock seemed determined to keep even John at a distance. And even though it hurt, he had accepted that fact long ago.

That’s just how Sherlock is, and John knows he will love him until his very last breath.

The air bites at his face as he climbs the steps from the station onto the street. He is tired and his body feels heavy as he trudges along Baker Street.

There is a cat.

A cat lying across the front step of 221.

John would have stepped on it if not for the moonlight gleaming off its sleek black fur. The cat looks up as he approaches and the ambient light flashes in its slanted blue eyes.

“Hello again,” John says softly as he bends to scratch behind its ear. The cat moves away.

Disappointed John says, “Mrs. Hudson isn’t here to let you in? She really ought to leave her back door open for you.”

The cat gets lightly to its feet as John unlocks the door and its slips inside before John has even tucked his key back in his pocket.

“Mrs. Hudson,” he calls, “your cat was locked outside.”

There’s no response and the cat seems to have vanished but the door to 221a is closed. That cat had been coming and going from 221 almost as long as John has, but it never seems to linger for more than a few minutes.

The stairs feel as though they go on forever. As he steps onto the landing he hears soft voices from behind the door and his heart lightens a little at the sound of his daughter’s soft cooing. Only Sherlock has ever made her giggle like that, and John suddenly cannot wait to cross the threshold and see them both.

He carefully peers through the door expecting to see Sherlock by the window with Rosie in his arms, swaying gently back and forth. Instead he finds Mrs. Hudson. She is seated on the sofa with Rosie on her lap, and both of them are completely absorbed in the cat on the coffee table.

John feels his eyebrow rise.

The black cat is sitting on its haunches on the coffee table, patiently allowing Rosie to swat at its head in an awkward attempt at petting. Its rumbly purr fills the still air of the lounge.

“Hello,” John greets quietly, not wanting to disturb the scene. The cat’s ear flick towards the sound of his voice.

“Oh, hello,” Mrs. Hudson replies, not looking up from Rosie and the cat, “how was your day, dear?”

“Better now,” he sighs and sits beside the pair.

Rosie all but forgets the cat and fusses until Mrs. Hudson surrenders her into her father’s arms.

John kisses her curls and rocks her slightly.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he murmurs into her hair.

The cat is watching them, pale eyes fixed intently on John. It’s almost as if its looking right through him. Even though he has been seeing this cat for years every time John is caught under its gaze he feels his hackle rise a little. All cats are a bit creepy, but this one could be particularly unsettling.

Rosie reaches out across the space between the sofa and the coffee table to touch the cat again and gives a pitiful whine when she can’t reach.

The cat stands and stretches itself out to push its’ head against her tiny hand, rubbing its face into her palm and purring loudly. John extends him hand slowly and the cat starts back. He has never been able to convince it to let him touch it.

“Come on now,” Mrs. Hudson chides gently, “let him give you a scratch.” As if to demonstrate she runs her hand down the cat’s long spine and it reflexively arches into the touch.

The cat eyes John's out stretched hand for a moment before allowing him to scratch under its chin. John doesn’t miss the way the cat doesn’t move to meet him, instead making John do the work. After a moment the cat lifts its head to allow John better access and closes its eyes.

Mrs. Hudson makes a soft, approving noise.

John gets a bit lost in the cat for a moment, mesmerized by its purring before noticing that something— or rather, someone— was missing.

“Where’s Sherlock?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him today.”

“Sherlock!” Rosie babbles, and reaches for the cat again. She continues to mumble at it that way toddlers do.

John is more than a little disappointed. They’d had such a lovely evening talking at the table but he’d hardly seen his flatmate since. It was embarrassing how much time john spent just trying to be near Sherlock. It was beginning to feel like the early days when he’d wanted to be near him all the time just to bask in that brilliant light that seemed to shine from some place deep inside Sherlock. That heartbreaking thing about it all is that Sherlock was utterly unaware of it.

Sure he may trumpet about his intellect, but John knew that a bone-deep self-loathing existed within his best friend, hidden away where others couldn’t see it. John wished, had always wished, he could take it away, make the madman understand just how precious he was to so many people— how necessary his existence was to John's continued survival— but he could never seem to summon the words.

John wished he could just be honest. But instead he bit his tongue and choked on his feelings like a coward, because Sherlock— brilliant and bright though he was— does not love John. Not in that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: There is a break in Sherlock's case that changes their lives forever, and Sherlock must decide if he can continue to be a part of John's life-- that is, if John still wants him around.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you come along for the ride.


End file.
